


Brontide

by Selkit



Category: Star Wars: The Old Republic
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, Married Life, Possession, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1957068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkit/pseuds/Selkit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of being a good pilot is knowing how to sense the storms on the horizon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brontide

**Author's Note:**

> _Brontide_ \- The low rumbling of distant thunder.

After a couple years of marriage, Andronikos starts getting pretty good at figuring out when it’s going to be a bad ghost night. 

"Sith," he says one evening, trying not to wear a hole in the too-fancy carpet with his pacing. Probably a lost cause. "You’re talkin’ to them again."

Azulan sits in the kitchen twenty feet away, bare toes curling in the lavender gauze of her nightgown. Her freckles stand out on freshly-scrubbed skin, and uncontrolled hair tumbles over her back and shoulders, reverting from deep auburn back to red-gold as it dries. She doesn’t look like a member of an all-powerful, galaxy-ruling council. She looks like a painting he might have liberated from a luxury cruiser. 

"No, I’m not," she says, her voice stopping just short of that sing-song warning note she favors.

Part of marriage, he’s learned, is knowing when and how far to push. A pretty important skill for any relationship, he figures, but especially important when one’s dearly beloved is a slightly unhinged Sith Lord who could kill him with a wave of her hand.

Even _more_ important when one’s slightly unhinged Sith Lord shares her mind and body with a collection of ancient Force ghosts. 

He takes a deep breath.

"Yeah," he says. "You are."

She finally tears her eyes from her datapad and looks over at him, a frown carving lines through the freckles. “Am I?”

"Well." Andronikos ambles up to her. "A second ago I asked you a question and got nothin’ but a bunch of ranting about ancient inscriptions from the tomb of Marka Ragnos."

Azulan groans and presses her fingertips to her temples, as though she can pacify her parasites with a massage. “They’re getting out of control again. I should…meditate. Or something.”

"You hate meditating." Andronikos frowns at her, not bothering to try and fight the rush of concern tightening his chest. Lost _that_ battle a long time ago. He leans down to kiss her neck, inhaling the light floral musk of her soap. 

She chuckles, low and appreciative. “You have another treatment in mind, I see.”

His reply is drowned out as the sky opens up outside, growling and flashing, drenching the ground with sheets of stinging rain. Through the window, the omnipresent clouds darken from gray to indigo, reducing the cityscape to a shapeless black lump. Andronikos straightens with a sigh, a muscle in his cheek twitching.

_Stars_ , he hates Dromund Kaas. 

"I know," Azulan says, as though she’s read his mind. Probably did, not that it would take Force powers at this particular moment. "I told you, my business here is almost done. We’ll be back to the ship in a day or two."

"Yeah." He pulls up a chair next to her, dropping into it with another sigh. "The sooner, the better. Have you ever noticed that your ghosts seem to act up more here than they do on the ship?"

She shoots him a skeptical look. “Are you sure you aren’t just projecting your dislike of being stuck planetside?”

"Maybe," he admits. "But think about it. We’re at the Imperial capital, centralized site of Sith power, and that Dark Temple of yours is just a few miles away. Maybe the ghosts pick up on all that."

"Hmm." Her eyes stray to the window, a thoughtful look on her face. "It’s possible."

"All I know is," he says, "I hate watching you thrashing around with nightmares every night."

The atmosphere shifts, dusky violet mist pooling around her, little static crackles popping up on her skin. “There are plenty of other rooms in the penthouse if I’m keeping you awake,” she says. Her voice is the edge of a knife.

Andronikos braves the chance of lightning, reaching out to grip her hand. “That’s not what I meant, Sith,” he says, gruff and gentle. 

The storm fades, and for a moment she could be a normal girl—no powers, no ghosts, no galaxy in the grip of her hand. Just freckles and hair and flower-scented soap. “Softie,” she murmurs, squeezing his hand.

"Yeah, yeah." He tugs her upright, arms circling her waist. "You ready for bed yet, or what?"

"Ready." She smiles. "Perhaps we’ll be lucky and it’ll be just you and me tonight."

"Sounds good to me," Andronikos says. "No ghosts allowed."


End file.
